THE NIGHT COMETH.
We see the evening shadows

Upon the dewy ground;
And the flowers are softly closing

That by the way abound.
The clouds are growing darker,

And hide the fading light;
The wind is sighing sadly,

Then cometh on the night. Our hearts are growing weary;

Our eyes are fain to close; The limbs relax in slumber

Oh, sweet will be repose. Yet, ere the evening vanish,

Oh, let us rouse again, And work awhile in earnest

It may not be in vain.
Our task is uncompleted ;

Oh, faint not in the light,
But work a little longer
Till day is lost in night.

MARIANNE FARNINGHAM.

THE

POEMS

OF

JAMES GRAHAME,

JOHN LOGAN,

AND

WILLIAM FALCONER.

WITH

LIVES OF THE AUTHORS,

AND

A PORTRAIT OF GRAHAME.

EDINBURGH:

JOHN ANDERSON, JUN. 55. NORTH BRIDGE-STREET ;
BEILBY & KNOTTS, BI MINGHAM;

T. TEGG,
AND SIMPKIN & MARSHALL, LONDON.

AN